


One Day

by Leni



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:18:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leni/pseuds/Leni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tentatively set at the start of Book 5. Starts angsty, then goes friendshippy, then 'shippy, then gets hopeful. Harry and Hermione, late at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Day

For the fourth night in a row, Harry and sleep seem to spend their nights at different ends of Hogwarts. He is starting to care less and less about their reunions, too aware of the routine they have developed. Sleep will come back, another nightmare will scare it away, and the cycle will start again.

The darkness and silence of the dorm room are a welcome replacement, and have proven to be quite sufficient for the last three days. Madam Pomfrey would protest at such a declaration, Harry knows. She would protest even louder at his continued trouble to fall asleep.

But he has tried her potions already; they drug him so deeply that he cannot escape his own nightmares. Waking up in a sweat, his heart pounding and sure he’d scream himself raw if he could form a word, is still better than being betrayed by his own body, forced to bear witness to Voldemort’s madness.

“His laughter,” Harry mumbles at the darkness, shuddering at the memory of it. If he ever dies at Voldemort’s hands, he knows what will be the last sound he hears. He even knows the pain he will suffer, as the dreams (nightmares? visions?) have been sure to let that information through.

He also is sure that the foreknowledge won’t help him at all.

 _Don’t think of dying._

Easier said than done. It’s not as if he’s the only one thinking it.

Year after year, he is expected to play the victim, to surrender to a mad man’s plot, to die once and for all. Other teenagers his age – Muggle teenagers, Wizarding teenagers, perhaps even goblin and giant teenagers – are just starting to doodle out the path their lives will follow. Meanwhile, Harry gets to desperately fight for his not to be cut short.

 _Just… don’t think._

Sitting up, he throws the covers aside and stands up. The room is too dark for his glasses to make a difference, so he doesn’t bother to reach for them. Neither does he look for his shoes. If he puts them on, he’ll end up in the Astronomy Tower or at the Owlery, staring up at the stars or attempting a conversation with Hedwig, too far away from his House for an easy explanation if he’s found out.

Instead he slowly tiptoes his way between his roommates’ beds, with only memory and luck to guide him to the door. When he passes by Ron, he almost shakes his best friend awake. His thoughts are too depressing to handle them by himself, and Ron has a knack for distracting Harry from his darker moods.

His hand stops inches away from Ron’s shoulder. Even standing over his friend, he cannot tell Ron’s features. But his body looks relaxed, and one hand is curled into his pillow. Maybe he is grabbing a Snitch; maybe it’s a piece of Mrs. Weasley’s pie. Shaking his head, Harry steps back and leaves his friend to his dreams. He wants the company, but not enough to play misery’s role tonight.

The door opens without a creak, compliment of the twins’ endeavor to make every entryway in Gryffindor noiseless and therefore every room more vulnerable to their pranks. Harry almost smiles at that thought.

His smile does come into the open at the sight of the common room.

Hermione.

 _At least she changed into her sleeping clothes this time._

Harry heads toward the couch where his other best friend has fallen asleep, and chuckles at the pile of books and the scrolls placed parallel to each other on the table next to her. Except for the one clutched at her side. Hermione will berate herself for that in the morning.

“Hermione?”

Thanks to the fire glowing softly in the room, he only stumbles three times before reaching her. Not even bumping against one of the other tables and upsetting the knick-knacks on top alerts Hermione to his presence.

“Hey.” He kneels at her side, wondering whether he should feel jealous at the easiness of her slumber. Instead, a large part of him feels proud that he’s kept his own issues wrapped up tightly enough not to intrude into his friends’ dreams. It is enough that they worry so much when they’re awake. “You cannot sleep here, silly,” he whispers, aware that only when Hermione is asleep will he get away with calling her such. After a long moment of indecision, he chooses to poke one finger at her elbow, hoping that the intrusion will rouse her. When that doesn’t work, he slowly pulls at the parchment from her grasp. “Hermione!”

The hiss goes unheard, but her fingers do flex in a sluggish movement, searching for something. When it isn’t found, her forehead wrinkles and her nose furrows. Her hand makes one last attempt to grab her treasure, as ineffectual as the last, and only then her eyes flicker open.

She sees the parchment before him, snatches it from between his fingers, and pulls it back against her body.

“Hermione?”

It takes her a moment to link his voice to its owner, but the knowledge seems to make her frown more pronounced. “Harry?” Brown eyes look at him, disbelieving at first and growing into annoyance with each passing second. With her hair pointing in every way, and cushion marks on her cheek, Hermione does a good job at looking grumpy. “You can’t be in the girls’ room, Harry.”

The accusation amuses him enough not to correct her immediately. “It’s no different than being at Myrtle’s.”

Hermione blinks. “But she is _dead_ ,” is her response after a pause, the words accompanied by a shake of her head.

The delay points at her state more accurately than her looks. He reaches out to smooth down a lock of her hair, the one that has been moving with her and is currently tickling his arm. He should tell her they're not in her dormitory, remind her that the couch cannot be as comfortable as her bed, and point her in the right direction. Maybe even walk her to her door. “Myrtle is still a girl,” he shoots back, good intentions rushing off to join his lost hours of sleep, “Or are you saying otherwise?”

The firelight may be dim, but he is close enough to watch the flush rise up to her cheeks. _She doesn’t need fancy dresses to be pretty._ The thought sounds disloyal, but Harry has no idea whom he is betraying. It’s not Krum; the Bulgarian hasn’t so much as sent her an owl since last year. It’s not Cho; this doesn’t feel like his feelings for her (and he wouldn’t have dared touch her hair without permission).

Perhaps it’s Hermione herself, by not saying the words aloud.

He doesn’t love Hermione. He doesn’t think so – except when he does. Because she is Hermione; she is special to him. Of course he loves her. _Here is a reason for not dying. So I can figure it out._

At least one thing he does like a normal teenager.

Harry grins at that thought, and the smile makes Hermione narrow her eyes.

The prospect of a discussion livens her up, and she raises herself up to her elbows, careful not to wrinkle the parchment. Her Arithmancy assignment, Harry assumes. Hermione doesn’t research so many sources, nor is so fixated that the presentation must be spotless in any other subject – and that’s saying a lot. “Of course I didn’t mean that. But while Myrtle may look and… act… like a girl, after a fashion, it’s obvious that -” Her eyes dart around. “Wait a second,” she interrupts herself, looking around the room. “This is the common room!” She looks down at the books and the other parchment scrolls. “I was writing – and – _Harry_. Couldn’t you tell me?”

He shrugs, then tries to look penitent off her glare. Maybe sleep deprivation is getting to him, and maybe Hermione would understand if he explained. “I was in bed, and –”

“Oh dear God,” she exclaims, blushing brighter than Harry can remember. “You heard me snore?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to deny it, but he thinks of the long conversations she’ll engineer if his insomnia comes up. There may be research involved. And charts. “It was really you?”

Hermione jack-knifes into a sitting position, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll go,” she mumbles, moving around him to follow through.

A hand around her wrist stops her. “I was kidding.” This time, Harry feels truly penitent. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t let her go, and when Hermione sits down, he moves to sit beside her. “I…. I had a nightmare. Came down because I needed to get out of there.”

Her mouth opens in a soft ‘oh’, and a wave of bushy hair comes to rest against his arm. “Voldemort?” He nods, though she doesn’t look up to see his response nor presses for a verbal one. Her wrist disengages from his grasp, and he lets it go, content with the weight of her head against his shoulder. But her hand doesn’t go far; it returns to twine her fingers with his. They spend several minutes in silence, watching the fire go down to its last embers and be stoked back to life by a house elf.

The elf looks nervous at their presence, and Harry is aware that he and Hermione are intruders in the castle's routine. But then the elf's ears twitch, and he gives a wordless, affronted sniff. He must have recognized Hermione.

For once, she doesn’t start on a liberation speech. Her hand tightens briefly around Harry’s, but she keeps quiet. He returns the gesture, both in acknowledgment and thanks. Relieved, the elf pops back out. It doesn’t ask whether Master Potter and Miss Granger require any further assistance, unwilling to run the risk of a S.P.E.W discourse.

The silence doesn't survive long after that.

“One day,” she starts, her voice deliberate and strong, “things will change.” Harry is starting to wonder whether she saved the propaganda for him, when she continues, “We won’t hide. We won’t be afraid. We won’t be slaves to Voldemort’s whims.” She takes a deep breath. “One day, Harry, we won’t say that name again. Because he will be gone.”

He smiles, or makes an attempt. “Hermione….”

“You have to believe me,” she says, turning to look him in the eye. He doesn’t need his glasses to know that her eyes are serious, or that she has adopted that stubborn set of her jaw that used to unnerve him as a child. She tugs on his hand, and the tips of her nails graze his skin. “Say you believe me, Harry.”

 _Or it won’t work,_ he reads under the persistent tone.

He nods. “No more nightmares.”

“No more pointless death.”

“No more betrayals.”

“No more secrets,” and she looks pointedly at him. Her free hand rises to hover over the bags under his eyes.

No. Harry doesn’t love Hermione. But he cannot love any other girl like he loves her. “No more secrets,” he repeats. It’s a promise he can’t keep, not now. But….

 _One day._

 

The End  
29/10/11

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Doomed 'Ship Comment Ficathon ('10).


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